Page:Stringer - Lonely O'Malley.djvu/33

 "W'at turnips?" demanded Redney, vacuously.

"Why, them winter turnips you said 'd rotted down there!"

"Oh, who cares for turnips!" cried Redney, abandonedly. "This is fishin' weather!"



The sun mounted still higher, the frogs still trebled and fluted down on the river-flats, the warm breeze stirred lazily once more. The alleys and back yards of the town of Chamboro grew quieter; the robins sang on undisturbed; the noisy rattle of an occasional pump-handle echoed through the blossom-muffled stillness. Even the wooden soldier windmill on the peak of Barrison's stable refused any longer to wheel and flaunt his faded red arms.